


My Dog Speaks More Eloquently

by apanoplyofsong



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dogs, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apanoplyofsong/pseuds/apanoplyofsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin had wanted a dog since her eleventh birthday. Bellamy Blake was less prepared.</p><p>Or: 3 times dogs brought Clarke and Bellamy together + 1 time dogs pulled them apart</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Dog Speaks More Eloquently

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teamquiche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamquiche/gifts).



> It's Hannah's birthday, and she's one of my very best trash cheerleaders and I adore her, which means she gets dogs.  
> This is just a ridiculous amount of fluff with dogs. Please don't expect anything else.  
> A special thanks to [Julia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme) for encouraging/brainstorming with me when I got stuck.
> 
> Title from Hamilton, because I know what we're about and it's generally LMM + pups.

**( one)**

“I got a dog.”

Clarke peels the phone away from her cheek and blinks blearily at the screen, confirming that, yes, Bellamy Blake _is_ in fact calling her at 8:12 on a Saturday morning.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“I think I got a _dog_ , Clarke.”

She rubs a hand over her face, flopping onto her back to stare at where the ceiling is just starting to be touched by light filtering in through the blinds. “Congrats. Why are you telling me this? More importantly, why are you telling me this before 9am?”

He huffs, the sound crackling through the speakers. “Because you’re the only person I know who actually _has_ a dog. And I didn’t plan on it. I just found this dog and I took her to the shelter and they’re going to do their health screening and stuff but they said they didn’t actually have room to keep her long-term so I somehow ended up offering to take her but you need stuff for dogs and I don’t know anything about that and I don’t want to end up buying poisoned food.” His breath comes out in a rush at the end.

Clarke sighs, pushing up on her elbow to make sure Gregg is still sleeping on his bed in the corner of her room. The Doberman mix is sprawled across the gray padding, overly fuzzy legs sticking straight out and jowls hanging loosely. Of course Bellamy stumbled into owning a dog. He was terrible at letting things fend for themselves, if he thought there was a way to help.

Her lips pull up a little at the thought.

“Alright. You said the shelter is checking her? When are you supposed to pick her up?”

“I don’t know. They said they’ll spay and microchip her for me, so probably tomorrow afternoon or Monday?”

“Then we can go to Petsmart this afternoon.” She can’t help but add, “You know, when normal people who _enjoy their ability to sleep in on the weekend_ are out. And I don’t think they would actually sell poisoned food. You’ll be fine. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Okay, sounds good.” Bellamy pauses for a moment. “Thanks, Clarke.”

She burrows into her pillow to avoid thinking about how genuine he sounds.

“I know, I’m the best. Buy me a drink next time we’re out.”

“I’ll buy you more than one.”

* * *

Clarke Griffin asked for a dog for her eleventh birthday.

She had researched the best no-kill shelters and foster programs in the area, the costs and benefits of various food brands, and even had a flyer for a training class at the local pet store. She was prepared. She was committed. She was sure.

Her parents weren’t.

Her dad said that it wouldn’t be fair to the dog, with how much her mom worked at the hospital and he worked at the engineering firm. They wanted to give their free time to Clarke. Her mom just didn’t want the hair everywhere.

Apparently, Clarke’s argument that she was in _fifth_ grade now and could help take care of a dog wasn’t enough to convince them otherwise. So, instead, she got a mint chocolate chip ice cream cake and a bike to fit her growing frame and she was happy, really.

But she still wanted a dog.

When her job with the city’s art board took her to a shelter to ask their permission to advertise the annual ArtFest on their property and she saw a goofy, loping, absolute sweetheart of a dog running in a pen, ears flopping wildly, she couldn’t resist. He was named Greggory and it was love; his body somehow managing to propel itself into Clarke’s lap despite being categorically too big for the space available when she asked to meet him, intent of covering every inch of her face in slobber and nose prints while his tail wiggled against her leg.

They let her take him home the very next day.

Bellamy Blake she was less prepared for. Instead of waiting years, he fell into her lap.

Literally.

Clarke was spearheading an initiative with local education and youth programs to paint murals on empty walls and school cafeterias as a way to increase community engagement, and, with the exception of being one bus short, the first session of it had gone better than expected. While the groups were sorting themselves back out on the steps and lawn of city hall, figuring out who needed to go where in order to get everyone home, she consolidated paint buckets to lessen the number of quarter-filled tins she had to make sure were properly disposed of.

Bellamy, there with a group from the branch of the Boys and Girls Club he directed, tripped over the extension poles for the paint rollers that were laid in a cluster across the grass and fell directly into Clarke, who was pouring the remnants of a midnight blue paint into a jug.

They were both doused.

After a few muttered curses on both ends and a flushed apology on his, Bellamy stayed behind to help Clarke and her coworkers clean every roller and brush, insistent on buying her a cider from the pub two blocks over to make up for the mess.

In the dingy bar light, Clarke could see spatters of the starry sky and ocean floor, missed in their hurried bathroom wash ups, mixed in among his freckles when he smiled.

She was a little bit enamored.

Somehow, he’d been in her life ever since.

* * *

“I made a list,” Clarke announces, guiding Gregg into the back seat of Bellamy’s sedan.

Bellamy smirks at her from the driver’s seat, reaching back to scratch the dog’s ear as she slides in next to him. “Of course you did.”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked me for help. You knew what you were getting into.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the best. Don’t know what I would do without you.”

She can still see his dimples flashing, but part of her warms a little nonetheless.

The Petsmart isn’t far from her townhouse, and soon they’re standing by the rows of collars, letting Gregg sniff at a bag of hamster bedding.

“Okay,” Clarke hums, looking over the selection in front of them, “how big is she?”

“Uh, not very? I don’t know, she’s just sort of…” Bellamy makes a motion with his hands like he’s fluffing a pillow, “a black poof?”

“So, like some sort of Pomeranian, maybe?” He stares back at her blankly in response and Clarke huffs, tugging on the leash and grabbing a package with a little tan Pomeranian on it’s front. She shoves it towards his face. “Like this?”

Bellamy’s brow furrow for a second, but then he lights up. “Yeah, I think so. Does that help?”

Clarke snorts. “Only with almost everything. Come on, we’ve got this.”

They load up a cart with a bed, food, a soft-sided carrier, bowls, and no less than three packages of puppy pee pads, since Bellamy has no idea whether the dog is actually housebroken or not. Clarke grabs a miniature version of the Kong Gregg loses his mind for, and on their way out, just before they hit the register, Bellamy reaches out to pull a tiny stuffed elephant off a shelf, petting it gently with his hand before placing it in the cart without a word.

He looks kind of awed, like the thought of these pieces of plastic and plush making a dog’s day is some kind of magic, and it’s sweet, really. That this guy she knows took care of his sister for years, who takes care of students who need someone most on the daily, can seem both overwhelmed and humbled by a bunch of pet supplies.

Clarke’s pretty sure that Bellamy has more love than anyone else in the world.

She doesn’t comment on the toy, just packs it neatly into one of the bags and lets Gregg slobber on Bellamy’s cheek as he drives them home.

He texts her the next evening, panicking. No part of Clarke is surprised.

_Bellamy Blake_

_6:57 p.m._

_She won’t stop doing this, and keeps pacing the room???_ _  
_ _[1 video attachment]_

She’s watches the video--a small, fluffy dog pawing emphatically at the bed they bought yesterday--and slips on her shoes, snorting when Bellamy’s messages continue in the same vein.

_Bellamy Blake_

_6:59 p.m._

_Is that okay????_

_Bellamy Blake_

_7:03 p.m._

_Does it mean she hates the bed, or there’s something wrong? The internet said it could mean she’s anxious, did I do something to make that worse??_

_Bellamy Blake_

_7:05 p.m._

_Is she just going to keep digging on things forever??? What the fuck, Clarke_

_Bellamy Blake_

_7:06 p.m._

_You didn’t tell me dogs were this weird_

She shakes her head, locking the front door behind her and getting Gregg to jump into the back of her car, typing out a response before sliding the key into the ignition.

_Clarke Griffin_

_7:08 p.m._

_Calm down ur not killing her bell. I’ll be there in a minute, jfc_

Bellamy lives a little over three blocks away; close enough to walk, really, but Clarke’s feeling lazy. It’s a small, square house that he leases from an old woman who brings him caramels when she picks up the rent, with a neat front lawn and bright yellow shutters. Clarke puts Gregg into the fenced backyard and knocks twice on the door before letting herself in. Bellamy is standing at the entrance to the living room, brow furrowed and arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

“She won’t cross the threshold to leave,” he says soft enough that Clarke has to lean in to hear. He’s staring at the little furry body walking back and forth, his reading glasses pushed up onto the top of his head even though he’ll definitely complain about the nose pads getting stuck in his curls later when he tries to pull them down.

The dog barely looks to be more than 6 inches off the ground with a shiny black coat sticking out in all directions, ears that fold over in little triangles at the tips, and white marks covering her paws. It looks a bit like she’s wearing miniature versions of the low-cut socks Bellamy shuffles around the house in, and it’s immediately Clarke’s favorite thing.

“Has she eaten?”

Bellamy nods, fingers tapping repeatedly against his arm, and Clarke covers his hand with her own to stop them.

“That’s good. She’s just nervous. It’s a new place, she’s still figuring it out. Where’d you put her carrier?”

She pulls the little black bag from the closet and pops up its wiring so it stands as a kennel, slides her bed inside it, then leaves a chew treat halfway through its entrance.

“Bellamy,” she says, and he lifts his eyes to meet hers as she crosses her legs on the couch. “Come on, sit down. You both need to relax.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, grumbling when it gets caught on his glasses before wiggling them out. His leg starts jumping as soon as he sits and Clarke doesn’t even try to hide the roll of her eyes.

She bumps her shoulder against his, trying to distract him. “So what did the shelter say?”

“Um, they said she’d already been spayed, but it didn’t look like she’d actually been in anyone’s care for a while. There’s a minor infection, but I’m giving her meds. Otherwise she’s healthy.” Bellamy’s turned to look at Clarke now, eyes still wide and worried.

She nods, trying to smile encouragingly. “You know, you never told me what you wanted to name her. How nerdy is it? No, wait, let me guess.” Clarke taps her chin. “Hm, maybe Octavia the Second? Or, no, what was Oedipus’s mom’s name--Jocasta? Bellamy, tell me you didn’t name an innocent dog Jocasta.”

He laughs a little and shakes his head.

“No, actually. Minerva.”

Clarke can see the back of his neck turning red and grins. “Minnie. I like it.” She cuts off his indignant noise by tapping his shoulder again. “Hey, look.”

Minnie is lying in the small kennel-carrier, grasping the chew between her front two paws and chewing determinedly. Bellamy lets out a breath and looks back at Clarke, a little awed and a lot relieved, slumping further into the couch.

“You’re a magician.”

“Hardly. Dogs like spaces they can claim as theirs. It’s probably less overwhelming for Minnie to be in a mini space.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment.

When both Bellamy and Minerva seem to be calming down, Clarke brings in Gregg.

“I don’t know if she actually likes other dogs,” Bellamy warns.

She shrugs. “Well, we’ll see. He’s calm, the environment’s controlled. I can fend Minnie off with a feather duster if worst comes to worst.”

“I resent that. You know I only have a Swiffer.”

Gregg promptly plops down in front of Bellamy’s TV stand, having learned from the nights Clarke has brought him along that it’s where he’s guaranteed to get the most attention from whoever in their friend group might be there. Bellamy’s even taken to leaving an old blanket on the ground, and Gregg tucks himself in comfortably.

Minnie perks up and pads over warily, her whole body shaking with her tail once she catches Gregg’s scent. Gregg wags along obediently, licking her once behind the ear, and she promptly curls up next to him, head resting on top of his giant outstretched paw.

Bellamy looks torn between amusement and bafflement. “I can’t believe she likes a dog named _Gregg_ with three ‘g’s. It’s so pretentious.”

Clarke throws a pillow at him.

She forces him to play one of the dubious _Air Bud_ sequels on Netflix--“It’s important for Minnie to have _dreams_ , Bellamy!”--and Bellamy gets up to tuck the small elephant he bought into Minnie’s side. As Budderball is climbing onto a counter on screen, Bellamy turns to Clarke, his brow a little furrowed again, thumb tapping at the place it’s still touching the toy.

“Would you mind...do you think you could stay? Just in case?”

The next day’s a state holiday, and Clarke’s only plans were to hang out with her dog anyway, and Bellamy looks nervous and so _sure_ that he’s somehow going to screw up with this dog, so she smiles. Warm and easy.

“Yeah. I could stay.”

 

* * *

 

**( two)**

Clarke wakes up to the roll of thunder and whining in her ear. Gregg’s shape is visible in the low light of the room, pressed up against the side of her bed and shaking, staring with wide eyes. A flash of lightning cuts through the space, followed by another peal of thunder, and Clarke rolls to the side, patting the space next to her. Gregg jumps up and immediately sticks his head under a pillow. Rain taps a steady beat against the window.

She can feel sleep calling her back under, a heavy pull at the center of her body, when her phone shakes obnoxiously against the old wooden nightstand. Blearily, she reaches out to grab it, knowing the weather alerts won’t stop until she silences them, but finds a text instead.

_Bellamy Blake_

_3:23 a.m._

_Are you awake?_

Clarke types out the affirmative, too drowsy to point out that she wouldn’t be responding if she weren’t. She stifles a yawn into her shoulder while she waits.

_Bellamy Blake_

_3:26 a.m._

_Apparently Minerva doesn’t like thunder, and I can’t get her to calm down. Everything says the storms are supposed to last for two days. I don’t know what to do._

_Clarke Griffin_

_3:27 a.m._

_Where’s her favorite spot? Try putting her there_

_Bellamy Blake_

_3:29 a.m._

_...with Gregg?_

It’s been almost a month since Bellamy found Minnie. He’s exactly as doting as Clarke expected, constantly concerned with the dog’s happiness and anxious about leaving her home alone. They’ve pooled their resources as a result--Bellamy’s after-school programs means he goes into work later than Clarke most days, and she gets off earlier than he does. They rotate watching the dogs; Bellamy staying with them in the mornings, Clarke in the afternoons, and between their two schedules, Gregg and Minnie are only left unsupervised for a few hours in the middle of most days with each other as company.

And their dogs _love_ each other. Minnie rarely lays down without either her stuffed elephant or Gregg nearby, and the larger dog is gentle with her when they play. It means Bellamy and Clarke have been spending more time together, too, not that their company was sparse to begin with.

It just makes sense for Clarke to wait to eat with Bellamy, or to leave him extra food on later nights. He almost always has a cup of tea ready for her in the morning, strong and sweet with just a splash of milk as she prefers. It feels easy and natural, curled up on each other’s couches watching TLC reruns while Minnie sleeps with her head on top of Gregg’s in the corner, the type of connection Clarke hasn’t had in a while. The freedom to just _be_ , the sort of comfort that comes with the worn-in sweatshirt she got at seventeen.

It’s nice, really, having them around.

Plus, Clarke is enough of a dog mom to know how it feels when they’re freaking out.

_Clarke Griffin_

_3:32 a.m._

_Alright, come over_

She shuffles into cotton shorts and a pair of old slippers, wiping the sleep from her eyes while she waits. When she opens the door, Bellamy’s smiling sheepishly, standing there in plaid pajama pants and flip flops with rain dripping from his curls onto the blue raincoat he’s got his arms wrapped around.

Her brow furrows. “Wait, where’s--”

Before she can finish her question, he shifts his arms and Minnie’s head pops out of the jacket, her body wiggling against Bellamy’s as she sees Clarke. The pup turns to lick a drop of water off of Bellamy’s chin as he shrugs, and Clarke’s brain stops momentarily at the sight.

Then another clap of thunder rings loudly and Minnie burrows back into Bellamy’s arm.

“Shit, yeah, come in.”

Bellamy strips his jacket and grabs a towel to dry his hair, and Clarke carries Minnie into her bedroom. The dog gives a quick yap when she sees Gregg, burying her head under one of his legs as soon as her feet hit the bed. It’d be cute, if it wasn’t so pathetic.

Bellamy’s arranging pillows on the couch, yawning into his elbow when Clarke steps back out.

“Don’t bother,” she mumbles, cut off by a mirroring yawn.

He looks confused. “Why not?”

“Just come sleep with me.” Clarke feels her cheeks turning red and flaps her hand. “In my bed, whatever. That way you won’t complain in the morning.”

Bellamy rubs the back of his neck, the movement of his arm pulling the thin fabric of his shirt tight against his chest and exposing a strip of tan skin across his stomach. Clarke stares determinedly at a spot on the wall behind his head.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.” His face is careful, composed, and Clarke feels her lips tug into a small smile.

Her townhouse has two bedrooms, technically, but she keeps the second as a studio and office space, equipped with nothing more comfortable than the futon she got off Craigslist right after graduating college, so old that the springs were nearly visible. Between that, the sofa that’s shorter than Bellamy, and the bed, there’s definitely one best option.

And, well, if Clarke hasn’t actually slept in the same bed as another person since her breakup with Lexa a year before, she’s not going to say anything.

“Yeah, come on. Minnie will feel better with you there.”

It’s not as strange as she would have thought it’d be, having Bellamy Blake in her bed. But it is still notably new. He’s respectful of the distance between them, his breathing light and even, but she’s still thrumming with awareness of him, his body’s natural heat, his presence in a space that’s so intimately _hers_. They’ve been closer than this before--navigating the kitchen at parties, pressed against each other’s side in full booths at the bar--but this moment is quiet. Just for them.

Clarke wills the energy out of her limbs, tries to ignore the tingling in her arms and the place where her toes brush his calf and focus instead on the rise and fall of her lungs, the heartbeat she can hear in her ears, the steady rain falling in sheets of static outside.

When she wakes, she is warm and calm and safe.

Slowly, she realizes that she’s tucked up against Bellamy’s back, one arm curled around his torso and the other hand twisted in his shirt, her forehead pressed against his neck and her senses filled with the smell of his skin. She actively doesn’t think about the way her hips curve around his.

Clarke blinks, adjusting to the hazy gray light of the room, and barks out a laugh when her eyes settle on the other side of the bed. Gregg is curled into a donut on the middle of the bed--leaving her and Bellamy at the edge--and Minnie has somehow managed to fill the hole he’s left behind, her head hidden under his ear.

It’s almost a perfect mirror of their humans.

Bellamy stirs and Clarke realizes she’s still pressed against him, but she can’t move much without falling off the bed anyway, so she just takes her arm back, using it to stifle the helpless laughter still escaping her mouth. She can tell when Bellamy opens his eyes because he snorts and then turns, flipping onto his other side and swinging an arm around Clarke, the weight of it resting easily in the curve of her waist as he falls back asleep. The press of his am is grounding, and she quiets, settling back in with her face close to his on the pillow.

Studying someone like Bellamy is natural, in this proximity. Clarke’s an artist. Being a visual person is unavoidable.

And Bellamy is definitely a sight to behold. She can see the place each of his freckles were dropped, the way his dark lashes lighten slightly where they meet his lids. There’s a small scar above his mouth and his lips, parted just slightly, are the same shade as the strawberry stain Clarke left on her favorite dress when she was eight.

Something flutters inside her and she closes her eyes, smiles. Lets herself drift back to sleep covered in warmth.

When she wakes again, it’s to find parts of the city flooding and all non-essential personnel told to stay home. The bed is empty aside from her, and when Clarke walks out of the bedroom still clad in her pajamas, she sees Gregg and Minnie sitting alert at the door to the kitchen, tails wagging in tandem. Bellamy’s cooking bacon on the stove, surrounded by her striped towels and pottery-class bowls, digging easily into a drawer in search of a spatula.

He looks like he belongs.

“Hey,” he smiles, soft and a little bit sweeter than she’s prepared for. “I’ve got your tea.” He nods at a steaming blue mug on the counter, and Clarke pads over to it gratefully.

It’s prepared perfectly, as always, and she can’t stop herself from pushing up on her toes, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

He tries to hide his grin into his coffee and she scratches their dogs, wondering if they know it’s going to be a good day, too.

 

* * *

 

**( three)**

Things change after that night. It’s nothing big, nothing dramatic, but Clarke can’t help feeling like everything’s shifted just slightly. Like something’s slotting into place. They linger longer in each other’s presence, their touches coming easier and more often, and she can no longer ignore the way some part of her trips when he smiles at her still bleary-eyed every morning.

Clarke has a meeting run late on the last Friday in April, so Bellamy watches the dogs instead. When she gets to his house, more than a little tired and bedraggled from lectures about donors and the importance of gaining ‘ _elite support_ ,’ all she wants to do is crash on Bellamy’s overstuffed sofa and let him bring her Chinese food while watching _Great British Bake Off_.

Instead, she opens the door and is greeted by two soaking wet dogs, Minnie looking half her size with hair plastered to her body and Gregg dripping water from the tip of his tail. They swarm her, overexcited and weaving between her legs, attempting to rub the dampness out of their fur and onto her, jumping as high as they can.

“Oh, okay, I guess we’re doing this,” she says, patting their heads with some amount of suspicion before following the trail of water down the house’s narrow hallway.

Bellamy is sitting on the floor by the tub when she enters the bathroom, staring at the dingy beach towel in his hand. Clarke’s not certain, but she thinks this is probably what shell shock looks like.

It’s a little cute, honestly.

“What happened here?” she asks, stepping over a puddle of water dripping off the cabinet doors to perch on the toilet lid in front of Bellamy.

He looks up, eyes wide and baffled, and she bites her lip hard not to laugh. “I was just trying to give them a bath. I let them out and somehow when they came in they were both _covered_ in mud--do you know the last time it rained, Clarke? It was _weeks_ ago! Where the fuck did they find that much mud? How do dogs do that?”

This time she doesn’t stop her laugh. “I don’t know, it’s just dog magic. Like getting into the treat bag or--” Something clicks in her mind and she stands, kicking off her shoes as she runs towards the front door. Which is still standing wide open. Because she was covered in wet dogs and forgot to close it.

God _dammit_.

“Shit shit shit shit shit.” She stands looking down the street for a second and hears Bellamy come up behind her, muttering a muffled “ _fuck_ ” and turning to lock the door behind him. There are two sets of footprints on the sidewalk turning right out of his driveway, like some kind of framed parable in her aunt’s bathroom, and she follows them, breaking into a jog as she rounds the corner.

There’s no clear clue of where they’re going from there, but Clarke takes a guess, cursing under her breath as she runs across the street. She thanks whatever traffic gods exist that the light at Simpson is still out, making everyone at the intersection stop, and runs across that one, too. Footsteps are pounding behind her, Bellamy’s voice calling out for the dogs at intervals but Clarke saves her breath, turns onto Woodlawn and the fourth duplex on the right.

Sure enough, Gregg and Minnie are pacing her front step. They bark and paw at her door as soon as they see her and she lets them in, shoos them out into the backyard where they promptly roll onto their backs and rub against the grass with wild abandon.

Clarke hears Bellamy call her name from her door, and she manages a noise from where she’s dropping onto the small loveseat that makes up her patio furniture. Bellamy runs out, face still a little frantic, and sighs when he sees the two shapes writhing against the lawn. He falls into the seat next to her, their heads almost meeting in the middle, and they both try to catch their breath.

“Dogs are dicks,” Clarke finally says, and swings her head to look at him. Bellamy meets her eye and doubles over laughing, a warm rumbling sound that crinkles his eyes and pulls its mirror from Clarke’s throat. Because, honestly, these dogs make things _ridiculous_.

When they collapse back into the seat, they’ve somehow moved closer together, shoulders pressed right up against one another. Clarke can feel his body move when he breathes, can feel the tickle of his hair against her skin when the wind blows, can feel her heartbeat pick up in her body. The air is gold and warm around them, carrying the taste of summer--and, well. Clarke has always liked the heat.

“You didn’t tell me having a dog required running.” Bellamy’s voice is so close to her ear she can feel it, every inch of her skin on the edge of goosebumps. When she turns her head to look at him, she finds he’s done the same; their chins almost touching, his eyes scanning the lines of her face.

“Yeah, well,” she says, a little quieter than she intended, “you didn’t exactly give me a chance. You did adopt a dog on impulse.”

Bellamy’s ears redden, and the arm that’s not pressed up against her rubs at the back of his neck. “Well, um...it wasn’t entirely on impulse.” Clarke’s brow furrows and he continues, a little sheepish. “I saw the way you loved Gregg, and my sister made some comments”--he waves his hand as if to dismiss it--“and I just...wanted to care about something that cared about me that much.”

She can feel her face soften, staring up into his eyes, because, _God_ , how could he not know how much he gives? “Bellamy, you didn’t have to get a dog for that. You love things so much. And they love you back.” She smiles a little. “Minnie is a pretty good bonus, though.”

Bellamy looks over at where the small dog is lying on her back, tongue hanging out of her mouth, and grins. “Yeah, she is.” He turns back to Clarke, and the smile softens. “So is getting to be around you.” It looks like he’s studying her, his breath fanning across her face, and Clarke can’t help it when her tongue slips out to wet her lips. A soft buzz starts under her skin.

“You didn’t need a dog for that, either.” Her voice is low. Bellamy’s nose is brushing hers and she keeps her eyes locked on his own, brown and warm and turning up at the edges.

“True. But I’m pretty sure this all counts as a win for me.”

And then they’re kissing, soft but certain, and Clarke feels like she can breathe. His arms wind around her as she moves into the kiss, everything about this moment wild and possessive and so, so patient. It feels a little bit like being aware of her own skin, like opening a door she hadn’t known she missed and finding spring.

Bellamy’s grinning when he pulls back, just enough to press his cheek against hers, and her thumb finds the scar above his lip, traces its shape carefully.

“So,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss where his lips skim her skin, “does this mean you’d be willing to discuss changing Greggory’s name to ‘Gregorian’?”

Clarke pushes him so he’s back against a cushion, settles herself across his lap.

“Absolutely not.”

He’s laughing when her lips meet his, and her whole being thrums with it.

 

* * *

 

**( \+ one)**

Everything is warmth, warmth, warmth, pressing onto her bones and seeping its way out of her chest. The day is light and beautiful, sun beating down on the tops of shoulders; and Clarke doesn’t want to spend a minute of it outside. Doesn’t want to spend a single second out of this damn bed, Bellamy cradled between her thighs, his mouth fused to hers. His weight is welcome and she basks in it, rolls her hips against his from where they’re pinned to the mattress, relishes the drag of his teeth as his mouth moves from hers with a moan.

Bellamy traces his way down her neck, lips lingering at the spot where her throat meets her collarbone and she sighs, twines her hands into his hair and tugs until he latches on in earnest. Every place his skin meets hers glows, building into a fire, and if Clarke doesn’t get her tongue on the freckles that dip down his spine soon, she’ll be the point that combusts.

She’s just moved her hand underneath his shirt, nails scratching lightly at his skin as she moves the hindering garment up, when there’s a loud bark from the other room and scratching on the closed door. Bellamy huffs a laugh onto her skin while Clarke groans, dropping her head back in defeat.

They’ve been through this before. It won’t stop unless they do.

“Alright,” Bellamy sighs, the low rumble of his words reverberating against her. “Let’s go deal with that.” He taps her thigh and stands, offering her a hand until Clarke sighs dramatically and lets him pull her up.

“Why do we have dogs again?” she asks, throwing her arms around his chest, lumbering to match his steps from where she’s pressed up against his back as he opens the door. As soon as he does, Gregg and Minnie are dancing around them, circling and wagging tails and almost tripping in their joy, and, right, that’s why.

It’s practiced motion by now for Bellamy to grab the leashes while Clarke gets Gregg’s frisbee and Minnie’s miniature tennis balls, the dogs watching expectantly at the door until they’re allowed to go.

Bellamy and Clarke settle into the shade of a tree while the dogs run around the park, yapping and rolling and fetching happily for as long as anyone cares to throw. Clarke rests her head against Bellamy’s shoulder, feeling the steady warmth of his body and the brush of his thumb as it moves lightly against the spot on her neck she knows will bruise. Minerva jumps onto the bench and stretches across both of their laps, panting, and Gregg drops his frisbee at Clarke’s feet, pushing his head against her thigh.

They sit looking out across the park for a moment, watching the places where everything green turns golden.

“Well, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind for the afternoon,” Bellamy finally grins, wry. “But I guess it’s just as good.”

Clarke turns to press a kiss to his lips, sweet and easy with the promise of time.

“Yeah,” she says, reaching down to scratch behind Gregg’s ear. “It really is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Probably don't impulse adopt a dog, y'all; it's not particularly likely to lead to making out with an attractive co-leader. Also Budderball is 100% the actual name of one of the puppies in _Air Buddies_.
> 
> I'm on tumblr a lot: fully fandom/fic things [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/) and more generally [here](http://apanoplyofsong.tumblr.com/)


End file.
